In This Space Where I Can Breathe
by corporealdreams
Summary: COMPLETE - Harry can't breathe. HPSS slash. Warnings: mentions of rape, suicidal attempts of the extremely graphic nature.
1. Part One

**A/N: Hello. This is Part One of In This Space... I will be posting one part a week until the story is finished. It has a total of five parts. And...that's it! Enjoy!**

Your heart is pounding so hard that you can almost guarantee that your ribs are going to cave in, but you're running. You have to run, you tell yourself. Away from Dumbledore's ever-watchful eyes. Away from the permanent scowl fixed on Snape's face. Away from Hermione's questioning gaze and Ron's judgmental glare.

Away, deep in the Forbidden Forest, you run from the battle you just witnessed. It hurts so badly you can't breathe, but your drive is far stronger than the air screaming in your lungs. You run until you collapse on the ground.

It's all your fault. Ron doesn't understand why you cared so much for the twitchy ferret. He'll probably never understand, either, because you don't understand it yourself. One minute you were glad the sod joined his father because it gave you justification to use as many Unforgivables on him as you could think of. And the next, you were on your knees in front of him, begging him not to be so quick to ruin his life. Maybe you thought you could give him something he didn't have. Maybe you hoped you were enough.

The war has just ended, but before you set the wizarding world free, Voldemort had one more treat in store for the Precious Boy Who Fucking Lived.

You watched Voldemort take the Polyjuice Potion, watched him transform into you, watched him rape Draco as you, and watched Voldemort kill Draco. And Draco screamed, "Please, Harry, no!" throughout the whole thing.

If Voldemort hadn't been successful in breaking you before, he'd surely done it now.

And now you lie, soaking wet from the rain, in the Forbidden Forest, wishing to Merlin that Voldemort had just fucking killed you instead of the other way around.

You start to realize that Ron was right. A guy could get killed being your friend. Everything and everyone you touch has been destroyed.

You've heard about ancient earth magic. It makes you wonder if, with your magic fields being as sensitive as they are right now, you could just will yourself to be swallowed up by the ground. It's no sooner that you think those thoughts that a gruff, war-torn voice brings you back to earth.

"Potter."

You don't even have to turn around to realize that Snape is standing behind you. And whatever his intentions are at the time, you couldn't care less. He's done this before. Sought you out after someone close to you died. You don't care to hear his shit at present. You don't answer him.

"What happened?"

Ah, yes. He doesn't know. No one knows because it only happened close to an hour ago and you ran for it as soon as it ended. You didn't care that your wrist was dislocated or you were bleeding from the ears.

"He's dead."

"I've assessed as much. But what happened to Mr. Malfoy?"

You involuntarily shudder at the mention of his name.

"He's dead."

"By your wand."

"Yes."

"But you didn't . . . "

"Please," you beg, though you don't really know what it is you're pleading for. Solace, maybe? Or some sort of rectified sanity, perhaps? "I can't say . . . "

And by some miracle of Merlin, Snape knows exactly what you need. You barely hear the whispered, "Legilimens," and your world flashes blinding white and you can see the whole thing playing out. It breaks you all over again.

You lay there, numb about the whole thing, and watching as Snape gasps and stumbles back away from you. That's it, you think; run away, before you die, too.

It takes Snape a minute before he gathers his bearings and presses forward a bit.

"Are you injured, Mr. Potter?"

"It doesn't matter. Nothing matters," you say, barely a whisper.

"Can you move?" He sounds a bit irritated, but you stand by what you said. Nothing matters now.

"I'm not going back there," you say, strong as ever. There is no emotion in your voice.

"Very well. I have neither the time nor the patience to deal with your thickheadedness tonight. If you cannot see that you need medical attention, then it is no longer on my shoulders to deal with."

Which is all great and good in your mind. This right here, this very position you find yourself in, is the only one in which you can breathe without your entire body aching. You can hear Snape bustle around behind you. You can hear him turn to leave. He lets out an exhausted sigh and breathes "Mobilicorpus," as your body lifts gently off the ground.

You haven't the strength to fight it, nor the will to care. It's a long walk from the Forbidden Forest to the Hogwarts grounds. You can't be sure, but you swear you hear Snape whisper "Everything will be fine," from behind you.

Nobody knows what has happened to Draco and to the Dark Lord. They ask you, but you can't even speak. You know that Snape will inform them of all they need to know eventually. But right now, you just can't speak. They all take turns watching you. They all say that they are just there to make sure you don't wake up alone. You have a sneaking suspicion that they are all afraid of you. Or of what you might do if you were left to your own devices.

You leave the hospital wing, and the school, a week later. No one does or says anything to stop you, and part of you wishes they would. Mainly because you haven't the slightest idea where you're going or what you're going to do now that you don't have to live your life for the sole purpose of defeating a Dark Lord.

You wouldn't go back to your aunt and uncle's house if someone gave you Gringotts. You could go to the Burrow, but what's there for you? Constant coddling and someone who's always in your business? You don't need that right now. You could go to Grimmauld Place, but you haven't been back since Sirius died, and you're not sure you could take it. Too much death in your life, and you don't need to be constantly reminded of it.

The only thing you can think of is to clean out your Gringotts vault and buy a place of your own.

You stay in a muggle hotel for about a week, until you can secure this quaint house tucked far away in the country.

Despite the fact that you haven't worked out any of the issues you left behind, you feel generally content with the house you purchased. It's minuscule beside the manor that is down the road, but you'd rather be where you are. Living in a manor would only make you feel smaller than you already do.

It's two weeks when you've finished buying all the furniture and things you could possibly need and Snape pays you a visit.

You stare at each other in the doorway for about a minute. You don't invite him in, nor does he ask to enter. You cave first.

"The headmaster sent you," you say matter-of-factly.

"He wishes to see you well, though I cannot understand why."

You actually snort. Leave it to Snape . . .

"I'm fine."

"No, you are not. You are the farthest thing from 'fine', Mr. Potter. Running away and buying houses in the country will not make what happened go away, as much as you would like it to."

You're growing irritated that everyone thinks they know what's best for you.

"Where else was I supposed to go? I'd rather die than go back to the Dursleys'. I've left school. I'm a big boy, now. And I'm fine," you say, as you slam the door in his face.

You watch him walk down the garden path and see him enter the manor that you'd decided was entirely too big for you.

Only you could have become Snape's next door neighbour without even realising it.

Your house was already connected to the Floo network, so it was only a matter of time before the Headmaster fire-called you to see if you were settling in. Two days after Snape's visit, to be exact.

"Harry, son. Are you well?"

It's always startled you to see someone's head poking out of a fireplace. You don't know how any wizard could get used to it.

"Yes, Headmaster. The house is a lot of work, but it's coming along nicely, I think."

"Now, Harry. I'm very glad you're settling into your new house well enough, but you know that's not what I meant."

"I'm fine, Headmaster. Really," you say, trying on your best cheesy grin. He seems to buy it for now.

"I see. Well, I've sent some treacle fudge and a few of Dobby's famous biscuits along with Professor Snape, who should be arriving shortly. He had a few errands to run for me, and I asked him to stop by your house to deliver it. It really is nice having Professor Snape next door, Harry. Isn't it?"

You nervously glance over your shoulder out your window and glare.

"Mm. Yeah. Great."

You really shouldn't have been surprised that as soon as the Headmaster ducks out of your fireplace, there is a knock at the door.

You open your door to see a gaunt face staring at you. Snape hands you the package Dumbledore was speaking of.

"A housewarming gift from the Headmaster. I assume he told you I would be here."

"Yes. Thank you," you say, as you go to close the door.

He puts a hand out to stop the door, and you looked a bit shocked. Snape wants to come in?

"May I?" he says, motioning inside your messy hallway. There are still plasterboard patches on these walls, as you haven't had the chance to paint them yet. The paint cloth covers a dull hardwood floor. Snape notices nothing.

"Um...sure," you stammer. You're quite unaware of how to entertain a guest. "Would you like some tea?" Tea, yes. That's a good place to start. You hope he doesn't want to stay for dinner. While you can manage to not burn down the house making pasta for yourself, you're not sure you can handle dinner for two by any means.

"No. I'm here to do a simple evaluation. Then I will rid you of my presence."

You barely form the question, "Evaluation," when you feel the familiar presence of Snape in your mind.

You know what he sees. Pain and hurt and suffering, all bottled up inside, waiting to explode. And it will. He knows this. But you're still in denial. You're still breathing, and that's all that matters, you suppose. They don't see it that way. He leaves your mind. You wished you hadn't seen the flash of pity in his eyes. You've never seen that from him before, and you're sure you never want to again.

Snape sighs sadly. "You need to seek professional help, Mr. Potter. The way you are dealing with this situation is very self-destructive."

"Thank you for that, Professor. Now, if you would kindly sod off. . ."

When he sneers at you, all pity has left his features. He leaves, and you can breathe again.

There's a muggle family that lives to the left of you. A fairly young couple with a six-year-old son named Aidan. Aidan had often come ringing your doorbell in the middle of the afternoon to ask if he can retrieve a stray ball, or a random toy he'd accidentally flung over the fence. These incidents have become commonplace, as you nearly expect to see the boy every day (who reminds you of yourself at that age with messy dark hair, but with fierce blue eyes instead of your now dull green ones).

Aidan's father, Paul, and mother, Andrea, are rarely seen not but for a few times during the day. They always wave at you, and greet you when they see you walking out to get the post. They seem like very warm parents. Like the kind of people you'd like to believe your parents were.

Aidan leaves behind his stuffed lion, aptly named Lionel, on the pavement one afternoon. You pick it up and vow to knock on their door later when they return to give back the patchy old looking lion. They left in a bit of a hurry that afternoon, dressed in church clothes that you're grateful you've never had to wear, solemn expressions on their faces.

Andrea opens the door, and the last thing you expect to see is the young woman crying.

"Oh, Mr. Potter. Thank you so much for bringing Lionel back. Aidan's been absolutely distraught looking for him," Andrea says.

You smile, despite the fact that all you want to do is cry for some reason.

Andrea continues, "Benjamin gave it to him. Aidan's older brother. He'll be so relieved."

"Oh. Is Aidan afraid Benjamin will be angry for losing him?"

You should have known all along, you suppose. What with the way Andrea's face crumpled at the mention of Benjamin.

"Benjamin passed away, I'm afraid. Three years ago today, actually."

You nod. "I'm sorry," you reply. Simple words like that become used so often that you find yourself apologizing for things that could in no way be your fault. "It'll rain this weekend." Oh, I'm sorry. "My husband cheated on me." I'm terribly sorry. "My cat was run over." Oh, how awful. I'm sorry to hear that.

You're sorry for a lot of things. Mainly things you didn't do. And that will never change for you.

It'd been one of those weeks where nothing to you seemed least bit entertaining, which meant that you were left to your own devices for far longer than you knew was good for you. You blame yourself for that, as you do for everything else. You probably could have gone out and actively sought company. You simply chose not to. And the razor blade just looked too tempting. You've cut before, right after Sirius died. It felt like such a relief.

You forgot, for a whole two seconds, as the blade separated flesh and trickled crimson guilt onto the floor, who exactly you were born to be. You became delirious at the fact that you had no identity. So delirious that you laughed. Out loud. To no one but yourself and your bathroom.

Of course, Snape had chosen that exact moment to fire-call you. You could pretend you weren't home, you think thought to yourself. But Dumbledore always knows. And Snape had already stepped through the fire and burst in on you before you could even spell the wound healed.

It was the look on Snape's face, you think looking back, that made you believe what he said was right. But for some reason, that fact only made you angrier. Snape grabbed you angrily by the wrist and pulled you into the floo with him, straight to Dumbledore's office.

Which is currently where you sit. Silently watching Dumbledore watch you over the top of his half-moon spectacles.

You look to him, waiting for him to speak, while you trickle blood on his hardwood floors. Snape left in a hurry after dropping you off, and Dumbledore seems to be waiting for you to make the first move. You refuse to oblige him.

"Whispered words will not heal your wounds, Harry. Professor Snape has set off to make a potion for you. In the meantime..." Dumbledore says, as he kneels in front of you and wraps bandages around your wrists, "...perhaps you'd like some tea. Do tell me if you start to feel lightheaded, my boy."

And that's it. That's all he says to you from the time you entered his office, until the time that Snape stalks back into the room carrying a vial.

It is Snape who kneels in front of you this time, rubbing the contents of the vial over your wounds. Whatever the potion is, it's burning so badly that it's bringing tears to your eyes. But otherwise, you don't say a word. Dumbledore speaks again, however.

"What makes you so angry, my dear Harry, that you cannot see what's right in front of your eyes?"

You swallow loudly, because the only thing that you can see right now is a blurry image of Snape.

After that, Snape escorts you back home through the fire, but makes no move to leave. So you go to sit down in your favourite armchair in front of the fire, mesmerized by the whipping flames. You still haven't found any words, concerned that when you do speak, it will only give them the fuel they need to send you to St. Mungo's for good.

Snape, of course, follows you, and without being asked sits on the couch adjacent to you. You can tell that he's choosing his words carefully.

"Do you know why I am here, Mr. Potter?" Snape says, no tone whatsoever in his voice.

You can't answer because you don't know.

"I am here to ensure that you do not repeat this incident. As there are many more useful and productive ways I can think of to occupy my time, I'd ask you not to do anything stupid for the next week."

If you weren't so goddamned tired, you'd have retorted with some sort of quip to put him in his place, but you don't even have the energy to breathe.

You think of a thousand letters you could send your friends, but you quickly dispel the thought from your mind. Your wrists itch now. "That is because they are healing, Mr. Potter. Stop scratching them, else they'll scar," he tells you, and you can only hope they do. You scratch anyway, just to spite him.

A week turns into two. It isn't anything like you'd thought it'd be, having him stay with you. He makes his own meals and expects you to do the same. He coaxes you out of your room when you're sulking whereas the Dursleys would have let you drown in your own misery. It's a lot like living with them, you think, but with a little more respect that you think is being forced by Dumbledore. He sleeps in the guest bedroom. He rouses you from your nightmares when you're caught in the throes of them and can't get out of them yourself. You might actually miss him when he's gone.

You walk into the kitchen one morning and he grabs you by the wrists. You cringe reflexively, even though they stopped hurting days ago. He pulls you down in a chair, and unwraps them.

You usually look away, afraid of the damage you've inflicted on yourself, but today you can't stop staring at the jagged red lines that have indeed left scars.

He applies the potion and announces, "We're going into Diagon Alley today. Be ready in an hour."

He could have said, "I'm taking you to St. Mungo's. You're obviously not fit to care for yourself."

Or worse, "I'm leaving."

People seem to do that a lot around you.

As much as you hate to admit it, he'd be right. What made you think you could do this yourself? You're barely eighteen.

An hour later, Snape is laying down the ground rules of this little trip.

"Stay close. Don't wander off. If you're in any danger, send up red wand sparks. Are you taking any of this in, Potter?"

You nod through the haze you've been living in for the last week. He's actually being decent to you, despite the fact that he's treating you like a toddler. You deserve it.

The threat of retaliation from the still existing Death Eaters has always been present, but it's never fazed you. According to Snape, Dumbledore has been preparing for another fight, but you think that it's all for nothing. Lucius Malfoy is smart. If he leads the Death Eaters into a fight, it will be far in the future. Though you've heard from the grapevine that Bellatrix has strayed from the group and become a rogue Death Eater. She's first on your list of people to kill.

You floo into Diagon Alley, and he strings you along to the many stores. You desperately hope not to see anyone from school. Ron and Hermione were vacationing in Switzerland this summer, the last you heard from them. Fred and George's business is booming, so they're here somewhere.

You're lost in your thoughts and lost in the crowd. You can't see Snape anymore. But that's not why you're suddenly panicking. You're being swept away, away in the river of people. They're touching you, your arms, your legs, feet. You're breaking out in a cold sweat, breathing heavy. You close your eyes, ready to drown.

There's a tug on your wrist. And another. You're being lead through the river. And suddenly...you're free. Up on the pavement outside Fortescue's Ice Cream Shop.

"Foolish boy," Snape hisses. He checks you out, to make sure nothing happened. "You look ill. Sit here. _Do not move_," he stresses that last part. "I'll be right back."

You sit, watching the river of bodies flowing down the streets and up into shops. You used to be in there. Used to be one of them. But now you're sitting on the river bank watching it all go by.

Snape returns with a butterbeer in his hand. He sets it in front of you, and studies you as you take a sip. It warms you immediately, and you've got your bearings once again.

"What happened?" he asks solemnly.

Things have changed, just now, between you. You don't like it. Snape is being nice, and you don't like it at all. You liked it better when Snape was spiteful and he didn't give a damn about you. It made you feel normal. Like you weren't special.

"People."

He leads you back to your house, citing you've had enough excitement for one day. And for once, you completely agree with him.

Despite all of your reassurances to Dumbledore that you're okay, he insists Snape stay with you for one more week. Snape doesn't seem to protest, which is odd. Although, you think, perhaps Snape Manor to him is like Grimmauld Place is to Sirius. Was. Was to Sirius.

It's an empty desolate place that reminds him of bad people and even worse times. You can't sympathize. You've never felt you've even had a home. It's been the Dursleys', the Burrow, Hogwarts, Grimmauld Place. But you've never said "I'm going home," and meant it.

This house you have is not a home. It's just as desolate as you imagine Snape Manor to be. You have no memories to reminisce about here.

Another morning you can't leave bed. Snape forces you to get up. Literally. Nearly flings you halfway across the room. This is new.

"Come into the kitchen when you're decent," he says, and strides out of the room. You obediently follow orders.

"Tea?" he asks, as you sit down. You nod. "Would you like something to eat?" You shrug.

Snape gets frustrated. You've seen this before. "Are...you...hungry?" he asks you, as if you suddenly turned into a deaf child.

"No."

Snape sighs in frustration. "You haven't eaten in two days. May I ask why?"

"No." You get up and turn to leave.

"Sit down, Potter!" he bellows. You obey.

"Eat." He ceremoniously shoves a bowl of porridge in front of you. You stare at it disdainfully. You wandlessly wave the bowl across the table.

He sits down next to you and attempts to feed you.

"If you insist on acting like a spoiled child, then you will be treated as such. Open."

"Piss off," you say, turning your head away.

He takes your chin, forcing your head against the back of the chair, and shovels food in your mouth. His hand is covering your mouth. He knows you'll spit it out the first chance you get.

"Swallow," he commands. You don't have a choice. And for some reason, it brings tears to your eyes.

"Talk to me. Now."

_What's there to say,_ you think.

"'Bout what?"

He's a bit taken aback, but recovers quickly.

"Whatever thoughts you are thinking in that dense skull of yours, Potter."

You look away. You were afraid of that. Clearly not liking where this conversation is heading, you bolt out of the room.

So it's back to locking yourself in your bathroom. And you don't even charm the door locked, so a few minutes and one bellowed "Alohomora!" later, he's got you pinned against himself and he's wrestling a piece of broken mirror out of your hand. God, you can't take this anymore.

"Stop it!" you yell. "Why can't you just leave me be! You're always trying to save me. I don't want to be saved anymore!"

"Really, Potter. For all the people in your life trying to give you a chance to live, you certainly are blind. You've got life in front of you. Your friends tell you that, I'm sure."

"What life? This life? You can have it, Professor. There's no reason for me to be here anymore."

"Oh, don't be so dramatic. You weren't born to slay the Dark Lord."

"Yeah?" you ask. "Tell that to Dumbledore. 'You were meant for this, Harry. This is what you were meant to do. It is your birth rite.' For seven fucking years, he preached it to me. But it wasn't just him, and he was right about it anyway. I was born. I was marked. And I served my purpose, so let me go!"

You're finally able to squirm out of his grasp and you push your way out of the bathroom, your mission to hack away at your wrists suddenly lost on you. There's nothing left to do, in your opinion, but to take a nap.

You have energy today, but it's fierce angry energy. Like you can't sit still and you want to punch walls and people and whatever else gets in your way. You've broken six bowls making breakfast. You throw the seventh at Snape's crooked nose when he walks in and finds you destroying the kitchen.

It feels like rage is suffocating you. Snape watches off to the side as you tear yourself from the kitchen and run outside. Outside equals fresh air is some sort of deluded equation in your mind, and maybe you can breathe there, but you doubt it.

You're sitting on your front porch watching Aidan play with his football on the pavement. You'd give anything to have that. To be that young and innocent again. Not a damn care in the world.

His mother is gardening, her back to her son. But even if you weren't watching, you'd have heard the car's tyres screeching around the corner.

But Andrea didn't see Aidan's ball bounce into the street. And certainly didn't see Aidan chasing after it.

You run and catch Aidan around the middle, yanking him out of the car's careening path and running across the street just in time.

"Aidan!" Andrea screeches, and she rushes over to the two of you. "Are you alright? Oh, my poor sweet boy!" she checks her son frantically for injuries.

"I'm fine, mummy," he replies, rather calmly for a boy who was quite nearly killed. "Mr. Potter saved me!" He's very proud of this fact. As if you were Superman, or something.

"Oh, Harry!" she says, wrapping her arms around your neck. "Thank you. Thank you so much. Are you alright?"

"Yes, ma'am. I'm fine."

When you return to the porch, you find Snape watching the scene, arms crossed over his chest.

"Well, Mr. Potter. Seems as though you've found your purpose."

You snort. Saving people. As if it weren't bad enough dealing with this God-forsaken hero complex you developed at the age of eleven.

It will be a cold day in hell before Snape understands.

_  
It's dark. _

Too dark.

And very cold.

You hear a whimper that isn't your own.

Draco.

"Get out of here, Potter. He's coming. He's coming and you need to leave. He'll be here any minute!" Draco says in a harsh whisper.

But it's not you he's talking to. The man has got your face. But it's not you. You want to scream it out to him, but you've been silenced.

"I'm sorry, Draco," you hear the man with your face say, in a tired and unapologetic voice.

Draco's taken in one swift painful movement. He screams. So loudly that if the blood weren't already rushing in your ears, and your own silent screaming filling your mind, you'd think you'd gone deaf.

"Harry? What are you doing?"

"This is the way it has to be, Draco." That's all he says, and Draco doesn't understand.

"That's not me!" you're trying to scream. But nothing comes out.

"Please, Harry! Stop!"

Gods, you're trying to scream out to him. But he can't hear you. "That's not me! God, please stop him! That's not me!"

You're shaking.

"Potter! Open your eyes." _Where did that come from? Your eyes are open. You're watching Draco being raped.  
_  
"Come on. Wake up, dammit!"

_God, where is that voice coming from? You hear floo powder rushing around your fireplace and a mumbled,_ "Poppy Pomfrey."

_That's not right. You have to tell Draco that it's not you. You're not able to move. You're pinned down. Someone is forcing liquid down your throat and now you're choking. You can't breathe. So now you're drowning. Oh good. Maybe you'll be able to see Draco in the afterlife. You'll be able to tell him then._

"Potter?"

_Is that Snape? More importantly, is that Snape scared? You MUST be dreaming now.  
_  
"What's not you, Potter?"

"Harry, I need you to open your eyes, dear." _You feel a cold cloth against your forehead. You're still confused. Draco was right there._

"It's not me! It's not me. God, please!"

Wait. You heard yourself speak. The spell has been lifted!

"Draco, it's not me. Please! Listen, that's not me...why...why can't...can't you hear!"

"Harry! Open your eyes, dear. That's it. Merlin, he's feverish."

"Thank you for that assessment, Poppy," you can hear Snape say sarcastically.

You do open your eyes, though. And regret it the second you do.

"Oh, God." And you're vomiting over the side of your bed into a bucket that had been placed there beforehand.

"That's it, dear. Let it all up."

A soothing hand runs over your back, and several minutes later the retching finally stops.

"I thought Albus said you were staying with him?" Madam Pomfrey questions.

"I AM," Snape irritably presses. "How do you think it is that I called you?"

"He's malnourished, Severus. Even you couldn't have forgotten that to live, you need to eat."

"I am well aware of the basic functions of human life. Though I'm not so sure I can say the same for him. It came to be that he hadn't eaten for several days, and I'd resorted to force feeding. He's as arrogant and stubborn as his..."

"I hardly think now is the time for inaccurate comparisons, Severus," you hear her sigh. Though your eyes are closed, you can feel her get off the bed and over to the fireplace to call Dumbledore.

"He couldn't hear me," you say in a raspy, sleep deprived voice.

"I'm sorry?"

You're rolled over on your side, your back towards him, as you know now that it was his hand on your back before, and it still is now. You don't think you could face him, as you're not exactly sure what is compelling you to share this information with him.

"Draco. He couldn't hear me. I tried to tell him that it wasn't me...they cast a silencing spell. And Voldemort used the Polyjuice Potion. He thought it was me. I tried," you feel tears falling. "God, I tried. He thinks it's me! But it's not! God," you let out the sob. "It's not me."

"Shh," Snape comforts you, which is a strange thing indeed. But you don't fight it. It's just a simple hand on your back and you haven't got the energy to fight it anymore.


	2. Part Two

A/N: Thank you for all of the lovely reviews! I'm posting this part a bit early, seeing as how probably won't get it up until tomorrow anyhow. Enjoy!

It's early in the morning, and you find yourself alone, a now-warm rag resting on your forehead from the night before. You see Snape passing your door, then doubling back after seeing you awake. You're a bit...confused would be putting it mildly. The events of last night are a complete blur.

"Very glad you could join the land of the living, Mr. Potter." He takes the rag from you and checks your forehead. His hand feels like ice against your warm skin. He grunts something, waves his wand, and walks out of the room.

He comes back in with a goblet full of something you wouldn't clean your floor with and tells you to drink.

"Um, sir"

He raises an eyebrow in question.

"What happened last night"

"You were having night tremors. You caught a fever that ran out of my control, so I had to call for some...reinforcements. Though you seem to be a bit better, your fever is still high. I'd stay in bed today, Potter, if I were you. Not that it would differ from your regular schedule of self pity. Now drink."

You do, and it tastes like mouldy sludge creeping down your throat. Typical Snape potion.

"Why are you still here" you find yourself asking him one day. You didn't mean to make it sound like you were ungrateful for everything he's done, because you're not. But honestly, you're curious.

"Would you like me to leave" he calmly asks. You can tell that he doesn't really expect a positive answer.

You shrug. "No, but you've been here half the summer. Surely you have other things to do. Potions to brew, children to maim..."

"Despite what you may think, Potter, I do have interests other than intimidating children and slaving over cauldrons all day long."

"Enlighten me, Professor."

"Oh, aren't you ever the apple-polisher? You've barely said two words to me since I've been here, and now suddenly you're interested in conversations. I might ask you what your motivations are, although it seems as of late that you've quite run out in that department."

Well. That didn't go at all how you planned.

"Dumbledore asked you to stay a week. It's been nearly five. I'm curious as to why you've decided to stay" you say, as cautiously as you can manage.

"And how do you know the Headmaster hasn't asked me to stay"

"Um, well...I don't." And now you feel like a right arse.

"I'd be sure to gather your information, Potter, before you go jumping to conclusions."

Which has always been Snape's way of getting out of a question he's uncomfortable in answering. It's tiresome, really. You've been sheltered from information your whole life.

"Why doesn't Dumbledore send me to St. Mungo's if I'm such a burden. I mean, I'm obviously not fit to care for myself..."

"Is that what you want, Mr. Potter? You want a diagnosis, a label? Something concrete that you can use as an excuse for your behaviour? A couple of potions and a pat on the head? If you want that, then be my guest. The floo is right there, and I'll be sure to alert the Daily Prophet of the news."

You've never scowled at someone so hard in your life. Really, you don't even know why you try sometimes.

You get up and try to walk out of the room, mumbling"You don't understand."

Suddenly, he grabs your arm, moving you and him face to face. You can feel his hot, spicy breath on your face.

"I understand more than you will ever know, Potter. _Beat this_."

It isn't a morale boost, it isn't a coddling consolation. It is a direct order.

He's the one that ends up storming out of the room, leaving you with something to think about for the rest of the night.

"You said you understand. I want to know what you meant by that" You've decided you can't sleep tonight and noticed the light on in the guest room, Snape's room. It is a now or never sort of decision.

"I do not feel the need to divulge that information."

"I don't care what you 'feel the need' to do. I want to know" you demand.

"And whatever the Golden Boy wants, the Golden Boy gets, am I right"

God, why does he always...

"Don't do that."

"Well"

"Have you been keeping up all these years? If you knew half of what you claim you do about me, you'd bite your tongue, _Professor_. I slept in a cupboard for the first eleven years of my life. I've been tormented and kidnapped. Ridiculed and stalked. Written and speculated about. I've been captured by a Dark Lord numerous times. I've seen my godfather and loads of friends die. I've killed people, for Merlin's sake. Yes, Professor. My life has been the epitome of good fortune" you rant, slowly becoming more and more hysterical with each passing breath.

He stares at you, as though you've suddenly transfigured into him. The silence is maddening, but suddenly, he speaks.

"Would you like a drink? Brandy or Firewhiskey"

"You're offering me a drink in my own house?"

Snape shrugged.

It would have been a lot easier if Snape had simply shooed you out, like he's always done. It would have made your future and the things that were to come a hell of a lot simpler if you had refused and walked quietly to your room, and left him to sit and think about the things that you'd just said. But being a Potter and a Gryffindor to boot, it made refusing a peace offering a lot harder than you anticipated.

So you find yourself sitting in your guest's room, sipping brandy from a dirty glass, and listening to your extremely intoxicated ex-Professor speak openly on the dynamics of frivel shig...er...shrivelfig roots, and their catalytic properties in the Draught of Living Death. If it were anything else, you'd have been concerned. You're not ready to believe that Professor Snape is anything but two-thirds malevolence, and one-third potions expert.

You listen very carefully for three good hours before you both notice that the sun is now rising.

"What did you do for the Light, Professor? Aside from collecting information about Voldemort"

You don't mean the question in an accusatory way. It was just something you've always wondered. He understands.

Snape has had this air of mystery since you've known him. He's kept himself appropriately veiled from most human contact, with the exception of Dumbledore, of course.

"I used the knowledge I have of potions against the Dark Lord. I was able to lead most of the children through the tunnel under the lake that leads to the shelter. Then I joined the fight. I was able to capture McNair and Malfoy, along with a fair few of my former comrades."

You nod. Through your drunken haze, you somehow recognise that he's done more for the cause than you could ever hope to accomplish. It, along with everything else recently, depresses you slightly.

"What did I do for the Light, Professor? Aside from killing Voldemort?"

He looks at you, drunken intent in his beady black eyes. But the haze of the new morning and this new understanding between the two of you has softened his eyes, and rounded his once sharp features.

"I cannot answer that, Mr. Potter. Since you will not speak of that day."

Touché.

It's been over a month since that day. It feels like just yesterday you were dodging curses, and casting the Unforgivable that killed Voldemort.

"What if I told you everything right now?"

He nurses his drink for a moment, then brings his hands together and, very un-Snape-like, tucks them under his chin.

"Then I'd listen."

You couldn't have hoped to get that response from him if he weren't drunk.

"With an open mind?" you inquire.

Without missing a beat, he looks you square in the eye and says, "with as open a mind as I can possibly muster, Potter."

He speaks with a committal tone, which finalises the direction that this drunken conversation is going, and you suddenly want to run from it.

"I...I don't know if I'm ready, yet. I don't know if I can."

"Then I will be waiting until you are."

"Will you? You won't leave until I'm ready for you to leave?"

You're blaming this sudden vulnerability on the booze you've been imbibing all night, and now, all morning. You're not sure what you're asking him, really. Not sure if he'll be complacent about it, or hex you into next week. You're really very confused at the things you're asking him right now. If only you had Hermione's time-turner...

"I will be here, until the new school term starts."

"Can...can I tell you a secret? It's a fear of mine, actually."

He leans in, the stench of alcohol very strong in the room. You waver a bit, even though you're sitting down.

You lean in close, whisper with hot breath into his ear, "I'm afraid that I have nothing to give in this life."

He leans back, no emotion showing in his face.

"That, Mr. Potter," he says, taking a sip of whatever he's been pouring himself for the last three hours, "is not a secret."

You lean back as well, slightly embarrassed that you've let him in and he is not taking you seriously.

"No? Why not?" you say, with a pout. "I think it's a very good secret. I've been keeping it for a very long time."

He shakes his head emphatically. "It is not a secret because you wear your blood red Gryffindor heart on your scarlet and gold sleeve. Not to mention that your fears are completely," he takes another sip, "irrational."

You shoot him a wounded look, and scoff open-mouthed at the insinuations that your ex-Professor is presently making.

"I do not!" you shout indignantly. Well, you _never_...

"I'm afraid you very much do, Mr. Potter."

You mull it over in your head for a while. Snape is usually right about everything. You take a moment to reflect on that.

"It's cold in here," you complain, as an involuntary shudder runs up your spine.

"Hm. The fire has gone out."

He lights the fireplace with his wand, but the chill is still prominent in the air. It might not have been the fire after all.

It's strange, because in retrospect you never heard him command you to sit next to him, and you don't ever remember obliging so quickly. So now you're sitting practically on the lap of the man who has hated you for the last eight years of your life.

He grabs your arm. The sleeve to your jumper is clinging to your biceps from cold sweat, but he points his finger at it anyway.

"This...this is where you can find your heart, Mr. Potter, if you ever lose it again. It shouldn't be hard to find it. This is always where it's been." There is a cruel smile playing on his lips, and you want nothing more than to do something drastic to it. Slap it, cut it, bite it off.

This firewhiskey makes you think strange thoughts. It's impairing your inhibitions. It's making you think unclear thoughts about Snape. It's making you think that you clearly want to curl into Snape and...

"Potter, what are you doing?" His harsh whisper slices into your thoughts and brings you back to the present time. You're mere centimetres away from his lips and all it would take is one swift movement and...

You brush your lips against his. _Contact!_ your inebriated brain shouts.

You were never one for physical contact. From anyone. Mrs. Weasley's hugs were always moments of tension and discomfort for you. You've shied away from it for the first 18 years of your life. Not because it reminded you of pain, or you were physically harmed at the Dursleys', you've just never felt a physical connection with anyone. So it seems rather odd to you that you want nothing more right now than to be touched. By Snape of all people! Why couldn't it have been someone normal, someone _female_? Then again, you've never done a normal thing in your life, so really, why start now?

And while all of these thoughts are running through your head, Snape is pushing you back. Far, far away from him, as he damn well should because you're out of your bloody mind!

"Sorry...sorry," you whisper, as if that would suddenly make it all okay. As if apologising would suddenly erase this memory from his mind.

You back up, far away, off the couch and against the wall.

"I'm sorry."

"Yes, you've already said that."

"I...I gotta go."

And with that, you leave. No destination in mind as you Apparate in the middle of muggle London.

A bar. That's what you need right now. No...a club. With pounding music to drown out your thoughts and beautiful people to get one person out of your mind.

It's five in the morning, and the all night club you come across is still thumping. Exactly what you're looking for. If it were anymore perfect, it'd be the Room of Requirement. Which leads your thoughts to fifth year and Sirius's death and...

No. No thinking. Just drinking. Imbibing as much alcohol as they'll serve you.

The whole thing seems so surreal. Bodies swaying with the music. It seems to you that while the whole world is rushing around you, and you're stuck in this hazy standstill. Everyone is saying different things to you that you can't even comprehend.

It's this blank haze. You can't determine if you're happy or sad. You just...are.

And while everyone else is bumping and moving, you see a streak of white blond rush past you.

No...it can't be.

"Draco," you breathe. "Draco Draco DracoDracoDraco..."

He's heading towards the men's toilets, and you follow him. Follow him, can't lose him again.

You get there, and nearly break the door in trying to get through, but there's no one.

You kick the wall in frustration, grab your hair and sink slowly down the wall. He was here! you think sullenly. God, he was...he was here.

You're angry with yourself for believing that a dead man could walk into a club and beckon you into the lav. Moreover, you're angry with yourself for believing you could have saved him. You couldn't save the one bloody person that completely and wholly understood you.

You can't think of anything left to do now but cry until you pass out against the dirty wall.

Some wizard must have recognised you (really, who doesn't?) and flooed Dumbledore, who, in turn, flooed Snape, who is currently standing over you, looking extremely angry.

"Did you accomplish what you set out to do this early morning, or are you currently in the middle of some self preserving revelation?"

"I saw him," you state.

"Saw whom, precisely?"

You blink. Did it really happen or was it another dream?

"Draco. I...I saw him."

"No, Mr. Potter. You did not. We buried Mr. Malfoy right alongside the others who fell in battle."

"No, he was...he was here. I'm...I swear..."

"Yes, and I am about to as well, if you do not kindly get off this disgusting muggle establishment's floor."

You glare fiercely in his direction. Last night...last night was a mistake. One you are likely not to make ever again. You wobble as you stand, extremely sorry that you even moved, because as soon as you're upright, the floor comes out from underneath you, and you feel Snape's arm around you as he catches you before you hit the ground. You've got a killer headache, and you're pretty sure that Snape will have no pity for you, nor give you anything for it.

You don't know what you were thinking when you thought you could change the unchangeable.

Your life has become exceedingly monotonous. It is the same routine day in and day out. Today is no exception. Snape is preparing for the new school year, and you are sitting on a couch staring at him. You're pretty sure he realises what you are doing, but so far hasn't said anything to you. It's been a good two hours. You can't take the maddening silence any longer.

"You think I've lost my mind, don't you? You think I've gone mad," you state.

He doesn't even look up from his papers. "No. If you want my assessment of your mental stability, then ask me."

You fight the urge to roll your eyes.

"I want your assessment of my mental stability," you say dryly, and mutter, "or lack thereof."

"You are dealing with a traumatic event the best way you know how. I do not understand what more you are looking for. Might I add, that in the eight years I've known you, you've never been the poster boy for emotional stability, anyway."

Ouch.

"Thanks," you say sarcastically.

He tosses the Daily Prophet at you, and you stare at the headline.

**Boy Who Lived Becomes Recluse**

Snape gets up and offers to make some tea. You follow him into the kitchen and calmly sit down to read the article while waiting. When you are finished, you toss the paper down, and pinching the bridge of your nose, you say in a whisper, "How did this happen?"

He looks at you sympathetically, which shocks you completely. It shouldn't anymore. But a sudden realisation hits you. For once, you think, the Daily Prophet is right. You've become a hermit, a recluse. You've holed yourself up in your house and wallowed in self pity for nearly two months. It makes you feel a bit panicky, and suddenly you can't seem to sit still anymore.

"I need to get out of this house. A...a job. I need a job."

You could have sworn you'd just seen a grin from your former professor, but you brush it off and instead take back the newspaper that you've just thrown across the table and start perusing the job adverts.

You know that Snape has spoken to Dumbledore about your sudden revelation, because the next day a tawny owl drops a letter in your lap with an official Hogwarts seal on it. You remember a time in your life when letters like this used to bring a smile to your face and a twinge of excited anticipation of the forthcoming school year. You almost miss it.

"Three guesses as to what this is, and the first two don't count," you mutter. You glare his way, but his back is to you as he prepares breakfast.

You break open the seal and, surprise surprise, it's an invite to teach this year's Defence Against the Dark Arts classes. You scribble a polite "No, thank you," and send Dumbledore's owl on its way.

"What else have you told him? Anything I should know about? I haven't tried to slit my wrists in a while, maybe it'll give you two something to chat about..."

"Do not joke about that, Mr. Potter. And while I am thrilled beyond words at the fact that you've turned down an opportunity to pester me on a daily basis for an entire school year, I do wish you would consider your options more carefully before turning them down."

"You...you want me to...No! There is no option. I'm not going back there!"

"I'm not telling you to go back anywhere. I'm asking you to take in all the possibilities before making a decision. It is, after all, the way adults make decisions," he informs you.

Suppressing a growl, you take out another piece of parchment and a quill, amending the letter you've just sent out.

_I'm being made to "consider my options." Please disregard my last letter until I've "taken in all possibilities". -HP_

You attach it to Hedwig's leg and let her nip your finger as you quietly command her, "Take your time, girl. No rush." She looks at you with a worried expression (well, as worried as an owl can look, anyway), hooting softly as she flies into the morning sky.

"There. I'm considering it."

"Good. Though if you did not act like a child, I would not have to treat you as such."

"Yes, we've been over this before," you say tiredly.

"Then there won't be a need for me to reiterate. Will there?"

Slinging the newspaper under your arm, you leave the room without answering him.

There are several places in Diagon Alley looking to hire on help, but with your..._fame_ (you cringe even thinking of the word), you doubt you'd be able to get much work done at all. And even though you didn't get nearly high enough marks on your NEWTS, you might be able to apply to a Ministry position. If you'd want Cornelius Fudge as your boss, and a bunch of ignorant prats telling you what to do all day.

There was that equipment manager position with the Tutshill Tornados.

You shake your head in disbelief, wondering what you're even thinking. Anyone would be on their knees begging me to work for them, you think. It makes you sick to even think about it. You just want to be treated fairly, without bias. But that will never happen.

As much as it pains you to think about it, the only one who would take you on for your skills is Dumbledore. He could have offered you any position at the school, but DADA has always been your strength.

It shouldn't have to be this easy, you think. And the decision shouldn't have to be so difficult.

You jump about ten feet in the air when your ward alarms go off.

Why are your ward alarms going off?

You find Snape in the kitchen, his wand extended, and pointing at the intruder. The long-haired, blonde intruder.

Lucius Malfoy. You should have guessed. You pull your wand out...you pull your...

Lovely. No wand.

Snape notices you searching for 'the one thing a wizard never goes three feet without', as he'll scold you later, you're sure.

"Get behind me, Potter."

"No," you say, quietly.

Snape eyes you. "Don't be a fool, boy."

"What are you going to do, Mr. Malfoy? Cast the Killing Curse on me?" you say, scoffing at the very idea. Where the sudden vote of confidence came from, you have no idea.

"No, actually I think I'd much rather watch you writhe in pain for a bit first."

"Get out of my house," you command.

"Or what? You'll sic your professor on me? Really, Severus, I'd rather thought you were above playing house-keeper to the Boy Who Just Wouldn't Die."

"And what are you now? Dark-Lord-in-training? Come to mark me as your equal?" you taunt. Really, you've never been able to hold your tongue in these situations. It's going to get you killed one day. And really, today might just be that day.

"Hardly. I've come to finish what the Dark Lord started," he states, disregarding Snape's presence entirely.

Snape starts to mutter, "Expelliarmus," but Malfoy is quicker and casts Silencio, then a binding curse, before Snape can finish.

Silencio.

_Silencio._

"_Silencio!" Lucius demands. It feels like a rough sock is being placed in your mouth, and you gag a bit, trying to speak despite yourself._

_Draco is blindfolded, lying on naked on the ground. He's out cold, and has been for a while. After the first two rounds of Cruciatus, he'd passed out._

_You commend him for making it that far._

_It doesn't surprise you that Lucius is sacrificing his own son to the dark side. Once Draco had changed his mind and decided to help you in the end, it was too late. His father found out and stole him from you. Right out from under your nose, while you slept in the Common Room after the NEWT exams, and he was there, sleeping on the floor right beside you. You two had talked until nearly three in the morning, about what it would be like after leaving school, and Quidditch, and love. _

_It was then, after you'd watched him fall asleep, that Lucius swept in from the floo and snatched him up. It was Voldemort's way of calling you out._

_You could have listened to Ron when he told you that Draco wasn't worth it, that he wasn't worth dying over. But you don't regret the decision you made. Draco would have died, regardless of what you did. You just have to keep telling yourself that._

_But you're watching Lucius drag his son's unconscious body to his fate. It shouldn't be this way. It should be you instead of him. But you're bound and silent. And there's nothing you can do but watch it all unfold._

"You," you accuse. "You took him away from me." Snape looks at you oddly, but you don't even cast a glance at him. As far as you know, there's no one in the room but you and Malfoy.

"No, Potter. I believe you have it wrong. It was you who stole him from me. Whatever nonsense you filled his head with was enough to turn him against me. I couldn't have my own son as an adversary."

"So you let Voldemort fuck him as me, and leave him to die!"

"Don't you _dare_ say the Dark Lord's name," Lucius hisses. "You haven't earned the right."

"Let me inform you of something, _Lucius_. _Voldemort_ is dead. And I am not above ridding the world of your existence either."

"With what, Potter? Your mind?" he asks incredulously.

You've never been very good at casting curses wandlessly, but your blocking has always held up. You can only hope that it will this time as well, because before you can even blink, a Cruciatus is cast, and you're on the floor, trying your best not to scream.

You can't hold it in any longer, and you do scream. Lucius is standing over you, smirking.

When the wave of pain subsides, you're up and ready.

"Get OUT," you stress, and with your hand, wandlessly wave him across the room, landing him hard against the wall. He's down for several seconds, which gives you enough time to run over to Snape, and use his wand to cast "Finite Incantatem."

"We must hurry. Through the floo..." Snape says, taking your arm and dragging you over towards the fireplace.

"No. This ends now."

Lucius is already up, his wand pointed directly at your heart.

No words are spoken, but the next you know, a brilliant green light streaks across your eyes, and your world has turned black.


	3. Part Three

_"Professor, where's Draco?"_

_"I don't believe that is any of your concern, Mr. Potter," Snape maliciously spats._

_"Please, sir," you beg. "I fear he's done something terrible."_

_It is right before the leaving feast, and you haven't seen Draco since breakfast, who looked considerably distraught after receiving a certain piece of post. You soon find out that it's a summons from his father to attend a meeting._

_THE meeting._

_You don't think that Lucius is stupid enough to believe that Draco's the same arrogant, naive child he was when he first arrived at Hogwarts. You're certain Lucius knows that_ _Draco has turned to the side of Light._

_So when Draco flees breakfast early, your first instinct is to follow, but a hand lies heavy on your shoulder as Dumbledore whispers in your ear. "Let him go."_

_You turn around, shooting him an outraged look._

_"Let him go? You're just going to let him go? He's going to die, Professor, when they find out he's not on their side."_

_After speaking with Snape that night, you watch students gather in the Great Hall. You know what you must do. You have to go to him. You can't just let him go..._

Something draws you toward the side of waking, and you hear faint voices, though don't dare open your eyes. You're on something soft, and the warmth of a body near you makes you even sleepier than you already are.

"I can still feel angry energy all round him."

"Is that normal?"

Dumbledore simply says, "Normal for Harry?"

"Point taken."

The voices standing over you fade into incoherent babbling as sleep takes over once more.

This time, when you wake, you feel only one presence looming over you. You carefully open your eyes, and see a dark figure sitting in a chair, chin resting on his chest, sleeping in what looks to be a very painful position. Snape's greasy hair falls over his face, though you can see that his forehead is wrinkled in either confusion or pain.

You try to call out to him, but it comes out in a painful hoarse whisper. You have to clear your throat to try again, but the act of doing so wakes him up.

You see him start awake and look around. You do so as well. Thankfully, you're still in your house, in your own comfortable bed. After all that green light you saw, you were sure you'd be in St. Mungo's, or at least the hospital wing at Hogwarts.

He carefully places a hand on your shoulder and moves up close to your face. You can feel his warm breath wash over your face, as if some sort of warm draught caught through the window. You close your eyes, drawing in the familiar spicy scent as he runs a hand over your forehead, smoothing your unruly hair back.

"Harry."

You open your eyes, and complete confusion washes over you. Did he just call you by your forename?

You clear your throat again, to see if maybe you can answer him back, but it turns into a hacking, painful coughing fit instead. Snape does not linger, and has a glass of water for you immediately. You gratefully take it and start to gulp the wonderfully cool liquid, but before you make a complete mess of yourself, he pulls it down from your mouth.

"Slow sips, Mr. Potter. You will make yourself sick."

You obey, and eventually the glass is empty.

"What happened?" you ask.

He takes the glass from you and sets it down on the cest of drawers next to your bed. There's a sad look in his eyes, though you're not quite sure if he is sad _for_ you, or _because of _you. This is a softer side of Snape you've never seen before. It's foreign and terrifying, but somewhat comforting to you, knowing that he's capable of feeling it.

"Perhaps I shall call Albus in here. He'd want to..." he starts.

"No! I want to hear it from you. I want you to tell me what happened" you warily demand.

He sighs uncharacteristically, and brings his hand up to rub his eyes. He looks like he hasn't slept in days. _Just how long have I been out?_ you start to wonder.

"Lucius Malfoy is dead, Mr. Potter," Snape says stoically, pulling himself together at the last minute. You almost sense a bit of anger, but any trace of it, if it was there, is gone now.

"How...I..."

"I cannot explain what happened, as I am at a loss myself. But I do believe you both cast curses at the same time."

You shake your head in disbelief. By all rights then, you should be dead.

"But how...?"

"I do not have the answers to your questions, Harry." _That's the second time he's called me that!_ "Though I believe that Albus might."

There's something Snape's not telling you. You can tell by the way that he won't look you in the eye when he speaks to you.

He excuses himself, mumbling something about making tea, and a potion to brew, and he leaves the room. You mean to follow him, but as soon as you start to move to sit up, your muscles protest and scream in agony.

Dumbledore sweeps in, with Madam Pomfrey behind him. She chastises you for moving, of course. But after her assessment of your physical well being is complete, she leaves you with Dumbledore. You have a feeling the exam is not yet over.

"Professor Snape told me that Malfoy is dead," you start.

He nods, the twinkle gone from his eyes.

You close your eyes in frustration, and rest your head against your headboard. "Please, just tell me what happened. I could tell...there's something else. Something Professor Snape did not want to tell me."

A small sigh escapes the older man's lips, and sadly, Dumbledore states, "There was another death, Harry."

"Oh, God..." you say, burying your head in your hands.

"Someone was standing outside the window. The force of both curses combined shattered the windows of the room, and traveled outside the walls. I'm so sorry, Harry."

There are already tears in your eyes. He doesn't even have to say who it is. You already know, because there was only ever one person who travelled past that window on a near daily basis.

"Young Aidan is gone."

No. You can't believe this. Just a few weeks ago, you were the Superman in Aidan's eyes.

Now...

Oh God.

You are responsible for taking the life of an innocent child.

Dumbledore places a sympathetic hand on your shoulder, but you jerk away from him, despite the pain that the movement causes you. "Get away!"

You never hear Snape enter the room, but you feel a dip on the other side of your bed, and that same hand that comforted you once before is there on your back again, slowly rubbing circles as you sob into your hands. Snape puts another hand on your shoulder, and that's all that you can take.

You nearly leap out at him and bury your head in his shoulder, wrapping bony arms around his neck. He's startled, obviously. You would be, too, if Snape had suddenly launched himself into your arms. He quite obviously doesn't know how to react, because for a long while, his arms are open, not touching you at all. But after a few moments, you think he realises that you aren't going anywhere for a while, and he puts an arm around you.

Your crying subsides after a while, but you don't want to move from this space. This comforting space in Snape's arms. The whole notion of being comforted like this is foreign to you, but you don't want it to stop.

You are responsible for taking the life of an innocent child.

You are responsible for taking the life of an _innocent_ child.

YOU are RESPONSIBLE...

Snape settles you back into bed, and asks you if you need anything, before leaving the room, cracking the door open like a five-year-old who is afraid of the dark. He's taken a parental role with you now. It's quite strange to see him like this.

You can hear them whispering down the hall, neither of them bothered to cast a silencing spell.

"You did not tell him everything," you hear Snape say.

"I could not, Severus. This is too much, even for him."

"Oh, please. He is not eleven anymore, Albus..."

"He has been through enough for one night." Dumbledore says, in a final tone.

You hear Snape sigh, and the whoosh of the floo. The floor creaks as Snape stands near the door. He seems to be deciding whether or not to enter.

"Professor," you call out to him.

He enters, lines of worry on his face.

"Do you need anything, Mr. Potter?" He sounds so tired.

"Um...how long have I been...?"

"Nearly a week," he answers.

"A week! But...what..." you stammer.

"Do not worry. The funeral is tomorrow afternoon. I am sure you will be up to attending..."

You turn away, the thought of it is enough to make tears well up in your eyes again. "I don't...I can't face Andrea...what will she think...?"

"Ministry officials modified her memory shortly after the incident. She thinks it was a lightning storm that struck her son."

"A lightning storm?" you ask in disbelief.

"It is not far from the truth."

The pregnant silence that fills the room is deafening. There are so many questions that are running through your head, but you can't find the courage to voice them. So much for retaining those Gryffindor qualities...

"I'll have Madam Pomfrey bring a tray up for you shortly. You should eat and then rest."

"I'm not hungry, and I've been resting for a week."

"You should at least try to eat something."

You nod. "Erm...will you stay?"

"And do what?"

You shrug. _Read the telephone book_ _for all I care. Anything so that I'm not left alone with my thoughts again..._

"Tell me exactly what you saw."

He crosses the room and takes up the chair that hasn't left your bedside.

"Where would you like me to start?"

"After I passed out," you say.

He clears his throat and begins.

"I was able to block most of the residual effects of the curses, and there were a lot. After the last effects had worn off, I went to you to see if you...to check on you. I had assessed that you were still breathing, and then went to Lucius to make sure he wasn't. It was then that I noticed the damage outside the window. I flooed Hogwarts, and then the Ministry. The officials came, cleaned up the mess, and the rest, as they say, is history."

You look down at your shaking hands and can't help but wonder what's going to happen now. Snape seems to read your mind.

"There will be no trial, Mr. Potter. It was clearly self-defence."

You nod. Though it doesn't seem to settle you.

"Thank you," you whisper, a cry stuck in your throat.

He stands, putting a hand on your shoulder and walking to the door.

"Erm...I'd like to have a bath...before I eat. Could you..."

"I'll inform Poppy to delay supper. Do you need assistance?"

"No, I...think I'll be okay."

He nods curtly and leaves, as you slowly make your way out of bed.

Today is the funeral. Aidan's funeral. You adjust your tie in the mirror, and run a hand through your hair, muttering, "I can't do this." You leave with Snape and travel the muggle way on the Underground.

The muggle cemetery is littered with people, and you stand at the back, Snape right next to you. Andrea obviously hasn't noticed you yet. You're afraid of what's going to happen when she does.

Several wizards leave the ceremony early, walking past you, you can hear their conversation.

"What a sad day. Poor lad never made it to Hogwarts."

"Ah yes, only five more years. No doubt he would have been a Gryffindor."

"Really? Aidan's always been a smart boy. I'd have pegged him for a Ravenclaw."

"Hm, guess we'll never know."

You glance up angrily at Snape, who won't even look in your direction.

"You knew?" you angrily demand. "You knew he was a wizard?"

"Harry..."

"No. Just...no."

You walk away from him, and down the street to catch a cab.

Does it really matter now, if Aidan was a muggle or a wizard? Did it matter before? Would you have treated him differently? Or is your anger based more on the fact that it's just another piece of the puzzle that Dumbledore never mentioned?

You stop before you can even spot a cab, because you don't know where you're going to go. You turn around and see that everyone is dispersing to their cars. You see Andrea catch a glimpse of you, but that only makes her cry harder.

You don't know why, but your feet are carrying you towards her. You stop her, catch her eye and stumble over your words. "Andrea, I am...so sorry. I..."

She crumbles. "Oh, Harry..." she says, and you can see the gratitude in her eyes. She's being ushered into a car, and you watch Snape watching you as he stands at the back, away from everyone.

It's unsettling how numb you feel suddenly.

You're sick that night. Violently ill, in fact. You don't even make it out of bed when that night's supper comes back up to revisit you. Madam Pomfrey and Snape both rush in, though both try not to make a big deal out of it. More than likely for the sole reason of keeping you calm. Though you can tell that something is clearly wrong.

Between all the heaving now, you draw in a shaky breath and say, "I can't breathe."

"We need to get a stomach settling potion in him," she says over your head.

"And how do you plan on doing so?" Snape questions. A good question indeed. You can't stop dry heaving, even though your lungs are screaming for air.

"Please," you gasp, tears falling. "Make it...stop..."

"Just trust me," she says. "Go, Severus. Now."

You hear him run out of the room. The mere notion of Snape running is enough to make you want to laugh. And you would, if it weren't for the fact that you can't even breathe.

Pomfrey is wiping the back of your neck with a cool rag and Snape hurries back in the room.

She uncorks the bottle and waits for you to stop heaving and as soon as you take a breath, a vial is being poured down your throat. She takes it away, and covers your mouth with her hand as you try your best to swallow.

But you can feel the liquid coming back up. She commands you to swallow and you do.

You wait.

A whole minute passes without heaving, and you're finally breathing again. She removes her hand from your mouth, and you sink to the floor, curling up in a ball, taking deep, grateful breaths.

The entire episode has left you weak. So weak that Snape has to lift you up to place you back into bed.

You're bordering on unconscious, but you can still make out their conversation.

"What happened?" Snape asks the nurse.

"I can't be certain until I run some tests," she says quietly, "but it might have been delayed effects of what happened that night. It could just be some sort of flu. Or it could be mental."

"Mental?" Snape questions.

"A stress reaction. He's been through a great deal, Severus. He has to deal with it somehow."

You can tell that he's thinking, but he leaves the subject alone. "I'll go brew some more stomach settling potion, just in case."

"Mm. I have a hunch he won't be needing it, but if it will give you something to do besides pace in your room all night, then by all means."

The funny thing? You can practically hear him roll his eyes as she leaves the room.

The strange thing...he doesn't leave the room at all. Instead, he watches you until you fall into a restless sleep.

You feel loads better in the morning, though your stomach feels like someone's used you as a punching bag. But you sort of expected that.

Madam Pomfrey brings you breakfast in the morning, despite your protests of being able to get out of bed and up and around. You're not an invalid, you argue. Though, of course, she wins.

Breakfast consists of runny porridge and dry toast.

"I'm fine, really. I think whatever it was is gone. I feel brilliant. How about some eggs?"

She looks at you sternly and says if you're a good boy you can leave the room later.

You pull out your best Snape Sneer as she leaves the room.

You eat unceremoniously and get out of bed to go wash your dishes up yourself. Snape is sitting at the kitchen table reading the Daily Prophet and sipping tea. He looks up at you like he's seen a ghost.

"You're up," he states.

"Yes. I am."

"You're feeling better, I assume."

"Loads, thanks."

As you wash, you look out your window to see Andrea walking out of her house, carrying a box full of toys. You can't imagine what it would be like to lose not one, but two children.

You hear Madam Pomfrey scoff behind you. "Out of bed, when I specifically told you..."

"That if I were a good boy, you'd let me out of the room. And I was. And I'm fine. So really, you must have things you have to be getting ready for the new term."

She eyes you for a minute, does a quick assessment, then mumbles something to Snape you can only assume was "Call me if you need me."

You're finished with your dishes, and are about to leave the room, when Severus grabs your arm.

"Where are you going?" he asks you.

"I'm going to use the floo to speak with Dumbledore."

"_Professor_ Dumbledore is rather busy, Mr. Potter. I'm sure he doesn't have time to chat."

_Oh, so we're back to that now are we?_

You brush past him and go to the floo anyway. Throwing some powder into the fire, you call for Dumbledore's office. He asks you to step through and offers you tea as you brush soot off of your clothes. You decline, getting right to the point.

"I want you to tell me everything you've been keeping from me."

He looks at you, motioning for you to sit down, but you refuse. It's your way of gaining control of the situation.

"Harry..."

"No. Remember the end of fifth year?"

He closes his eyes. "Of course I remember."

"No more death, Professor. No more death because of something you didn't feel necessary to tell me."

He sighs. "Aidan Calloway was on the list to attend Hogwarts in 2002. His parents are muggles, as you know. They were unaware, and remain so to this day, of Aidan's gifts."

"Are you going to tell them?"

"Do you think it matters now, Harry?"

You take a sudden interest in your feet. "I would want to know...if he were my son."

"But he is not, Harry. You must not take responsibility for young Aidan's life. It was as much Lucius' magic as it was yours."

You shrug, wanting to believe that.

"Anything else I should know about?" you ask quietly, still refusing to meet his eyes.

"I have a scar in the shape of the London Underground..."

He stops when you look up, wincing.

"I truly am sorry about this, Harry."

You sigh, one more thing on your mind. If Lucius knew where to find you, then surely... "Do you know the whereabouts of Bellatrix Lestrange?"

He looks you squarely in the eye and simply says, "Yes."

Without breaking away from this little staring contest you're having, you utter, "Tell me."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Your safety is not in jeopardy, Harry..."

"My safety wasn't my main concern, thank you. Tell me where she is."

"She's dead."

"You really are a horrible liar, Professor."

"Harry, please..."

"I'm not going to go after her, if that's what you think."

"You are a terrible liar, as well, Harry," he says, a sliver of a smile forming on his face.

Touché.

"There is still something you aren't telling me."

"There are a lot of things I'm not telling you, Harry."

"You know, with everything that's happened in the past, you'd think that you'd learn from it."

"And I could say the same for you. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a pile of paperwork with my name on it."

You floo back to your house, completely defeated and strangely exhausted. Snape is there waiting, questions in his eyes. You beg off, saying you are in need of a nap, and he lets you go.

You have a strange dream, consisting of shadows. It's enough to make you thrash around in bed a bit, apparently. Because when you wake, you feel Snape is holding you down. You're breathing heavily, and when he sees you are awake, he hesitantly lets go.

But in one swift movement, you bring him back down, crashing your lips together. Much to your surprise, he's kissing you back. And what's really screaming in your head is one single thought.

You're kissing Severus Snape.


	4. Part Four

**A/N: WARNING - This part contains graphic violence of the self-inflicted kind.**

Snape pushes you back against the bed, breaking contact. He looks down at you, completely horrified.

"Mr. Potter..."

"I...erm..."

He closes his eyes, as he steps away from the bed. "You cannot continue this."

"I...I'm sorry. I don't know what I'm doing," you say, still breathless.

"That much is obvious."

'But...you kissed me back."

"Merely a reaction, I assure you."

You don't try tohide your disappointment.

"I am not your type, Mr. Potter. Why don't you go out and find someone who...?"

You cut him off and yell, "How do you know what my type even is!"

"It is not the tall, dark, and greasy type, I'm sure. Aside from the fact that I am as old as your _father_- " Snape spits out the word _father_ like it's poison, "-I refuse to be the butt of a joke between you and your immature friends."

Your mindset is somewhere between completely confused and astonishingly outraged.

"What are you on about? I haven't seen my friends since..." _that day._

He waves his hand at you, dismissing the entire conversation. "You are obviously delirious. You need some rest, Mr. Potter."

He sweeps out of the room, robes billowing behind him. But you won't let this go. You get out of bed and follow him.

"You know, you can't pretend to care about me one minute, and then the next turn back to being the cold heartless bastard you are want me to think you are. It's very unnerving and very confusing."

"My apologies, Mr. Potter. I mistook you for someone with a modicum of intelligence."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

He stops just before reaching the front door. This whole conversation thus far has been very surreal. You don't know whether to pinch yourself to see if you're dreaming, or check Snape for signs of Polyjuice Potion usage.

He almost looks as if he is going to lean down and kiss you, but you know better than that.

"Caring is such a harsh word,"he says in a near whisper. "I prefer to call it looking out for your best interests."

"Oh, that's bullshit and you know it," you say. "You won't come undone because you feel something for someone. It won't kill you."

He looks oddly bemused for a moment, but it disappears rather quickly. He reaches out for the doorknob, and a pang of pain stabs your chest.

"No! Please. Don't go," you say, panicking. "I'm sorry, I take it all back. We can just go back to the way things were before."

"Before you tried to kill yourself, Mr. Potter? Or before you kissed me?"

You take a sudden interest in your feet. You hadn't thought about cutting yourself in a long time. You had hoped that maybe you were over that, but sudden feelings come rushing back and you realise that maybe you never will be.

"My reply was uncalled for. My apologies," he says softly, then moves to stand in front of you. "Harry, look at me."

You do, though you're not entirely sure you want to hear what he's gotto say.

"Do not dwell on the past. You've made progress, Mr. Potter. And suffice to say, this too shall pass."

It seems Dumbledore's use of riddles rubs off if you come too close.

Snape does leave that day, and has you in a right fit about it, but he comes back later that night with several packages that he takes immediately to his room, and shuts the door behind him without even acknowledging your presence.

You go barrelling into his room without even knocking. He takes out several potions ingredients and freezes when he senses you standing in the doorway.

"Can we talk?" you ask.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because there is nothing to talk about," he says, nonchalantly returning to his work. You grow extremely frustrated, and without even thinking about the consequences, stalk over to the desk and grab the first bottle you can reach and whip it across the room. The vial shatters against the wall, bright purple liquid coating a lovely spot on the dingy wallpaper. Snape's face is nearly that very same colour.

He grabs you by the collar and drags you out of the room, then slams the door in your face and casts such a powerful ward that the door glows a bright blue before returning to it's normal oak finish.

You can't help but want to prove Snape wrong. You haven't made progress. Your whole life is one big bloody mess and it's not going to get any easier. You'll show him. You'll show him…

It's the memory of dragging cold metal against warm skinthat brings you to your kitchen, searching for the sharpest knife you can find. You can feel anticipation fluttering in your stomach like a lovesick butterfly.

Taking a double-sided paring knife out of the drawer, you quietly slip out of the back, not bothering to close the door behind you. You sit down against a tree in your backyard, moonlight beaming on your face like a spotlight. You think of Remus briefly, wondering where he is this full moon.

Coming back to the task at hand, you look down at the knife that you're gripping like a lifeline. Which is pretty ironic, considering what you're about to use it for. It's startling how much you've missed the feeling of adrenaline as you drag the metal against the inside of your arm. The knife slices, deeper than you've ever gone before. You watch blood appear…like magic.

There's a fleeting moment when you think it shouldn't feel this good. Pain shouldn't feel so right.

You can feel your heart fluttering in your chest and it catches your breath in your throat. You look down at the damage. You've never seen so much blood before.

It's…you shake your head…it's dizzying.

A distant scream floods your ears.

Mm…maybe not so distant. You can't tell; your eyes don't want to open.

Someone's touching you. You hope it's Snape. You hope he feels guilty because it is clearly his fault for ignoring you, for throwing you out when you needed to talk. It's clearly his fault that you're so fucked up.

A new wave of pain overcomes you, as that person grabs your arm. They are screeching something frantically, which makes you think that couldn't possibly be Snape.

Hours go by. No, wait…probably mere minutes. Time is a convoluted thing right now, and it seems to have stopped. You hear and feel everything in slow motion.

Oh, here's Snape. But why does he sound so far away, when you can feel his callused hands touching your face? You hear him bark orders at whomever was screaming before and then a harsh whisper against your ear.

"Daft child."

You feel him lift your eyelid, and before you can register the expression on Snape's face, a blinding light fills your vision before you slip into oblivion.

It's nice where you are, if just a little bit cold. The afterlife reeks of hospital sterility, you think to yourself.

And then you groan when you realise where you really are.

Echoing voices are at your side, touching you, coaxing you to wake up. You don't want to. Maybe if you don't open your eyes it won't be real. Maybe if you just pretend…

"I thought you said he was doing better, Severus? How could you have let this happen?" you hear Madam Pomfrey scolding him. You knew you liked the woman for some reason.

"This was not my doing. And I am not a licensed counsellor, as I've reminded Albus more times than I can remember."

"He should have been in St. Mungo's," is what you're waiting for someone to say, but it doesn't happen. Maybe that's where you are after all.

You just want to go back to sleep for a while, and deal with the world later. But there are other voices around you, voices that you don't recognize. There's someone ordering more potions, and someone rambling off stats and numbers, which make absolutely no sense to your befuddled mind.

"Harry, can you hear me? Open your eyes, dear."

"That's a lot of blood replenishing potion. Are you sure all that is necessary?" someone unfamiliar to you asks in the background.

You hear Snape's voice very quietly comment, "You weren't there."

You remembered watching scarlet rivers flow out of your arm as thoughit were a leaky faucet. You realise how close you came to reaching your goal. You moan aloud, berating yourself. You can't seem to do anything right…

"That's it, dear. Let me see those darling green eyes of yours."

Way to go, you think. Now she knows you're awake. Might as well…

It isn't as bright as you'd expected St. Mungo's to be. And the ceiling pattern is very similar to…

"Hogwarts?" you question aloud.

"Yes, dear. You're in the hospital wing at Hogwarts. Do you know why you're here, Harry?"

Well, that's a silly question. You lift your arm up to…you lift…

Why can't you move your arms?

Well, you're completely alert now. Trying frantically to pull at the soft restraints they have you in. Arms and legs strapped to the hospital bed like…

"No….no no no. Get me out of this. Let me go! You have to take these off! Please! I won't do it again, please, Madam Pomfrey, you have to take these off!"

Snape mutters, "I can't watch this," and stalks out of the hospital wing, while three healers are trying to control your flailing limbs, despite the fact that there is no room for your limbs to flail.

"I can't, Harry. I'm sorry. Not yet, anyway," she says, sadly.

Hot tears trail their way down your cheeks, but you're not here anymore. You're back in Voldemort's clutches. You're being tortured by Death Eaters. If only this woman knew she was doing more harm than good, she'd let you go.

"Please…" you gasp out, hyperventilating. "Please, you need to…I can't breathe…"

You barely register it when someone places the vial at your lips, and forces your head back to drink its contents. You slip into oblivion once more.

The room is suspiciously quiet when you come to, again. The first thing you do is check to see if they've removed the soft restraints yet. You whimper, because they haven't.

They couldn't have just left you to die, could they have? Stupid Snape saving your stupid life.

You open your eyes cautiously, and notice Snape sitting in a chair, awake, but completely out of it. His eyes are bloodshot as if he'd been up all night. Or crying. But you're pretty sure that Snape is physically incapable of the latter.

"Professor…"

His full attention is on you now. You start to hyperventilate again, but you still need to somehow get across your point without making it seem like you're overreacting.

"Can you please remove the restraints? I'm trying really hard…It's reminding me of the room…where the Death Eaters had me. And seeing Draco with... I promise I'm not going to do anything. I just need to…not lie on my back."

He smiles sadly, and whispers, "I know, Harry." He slowly moves to each restraint and as each one is undone, you fumble to help him get them off of you, but he looks at you condescendingly and you stop. The second the last one is off, you curl up on your side facing away from Snape, arms over your chest. You don't think you can face him right now.

I can breathe, I can breathe, I can breathe… 

"I'm sorry, Professor," you say, though you're not sure that there is anything to apologize for.

"So am I."

It takes a few minutes, but you calm down enough to realize that your actions are about to have some consequences as Dumbledore strolls into the Hospital Wing.

"Hello, Severus," the Headmaster greets in a disgustingly chipper tone. "He is awake, I take it?"

"He is. If you'll excuse me," Snape says, shuffling out of the room without taking his eyes off of the floor.

"You have been dealt a bad hand, my dear boy. For that, I am sorry," Dumbledore says as he slowly makes his way to your bed. He sits in the chair that is facing you, and folds his hands in his lap.

You shrug, not really knowing what to say in response to that, although you mentally agree with him.

"Do you know why Professor Snape was sent to stay with you, Harry?"

"You wanted someone to keep an eye on me, make sure I didn't do anything rash."

He smiles down at you, and it's the infuriatingly patronizing smile. "Partly," he says. "But mostly because I knew that Professor Snape could help you in a way that no healer or mediwitch or counsellor could."

"How's that?" You remember Snape saying that he understood what was going on in your head more than you knew. But that couldn't mean that…

"Professor Snape was once a teenager, too, Harry. Do keep that in mind."

He stands up to leave, but pauses for a moment. "Do you need anything?"

You shake your head, and watch his robes swish behind him as he exits the hospital wing doors.

Snape confuses you. One minute he's a right bastard, and the next you think he might actually have a heart inside of his chest. You knew that Snape was a teenager. You've seen it in his Pensieve. But it's still difficult to picture Snape in a similar situation. He doesn't seem the brooding type to you.

Then again…there is a lot you don't know about him.

"Do we have to do this now?" you whine. You know you sound childish, but it's only been a day, and you're still feeling a bit light-headed when you sit up. You're being fed blood-replenishers every six hours. Madam Pomfrey says that physically, you'll be all right in another day or so. But mentally…

"Yes, Mr. Potter. Now is an ideal time. You don't have a prior engagement, do you? Before last night, you assumed you would be dead…."

Well, you're glad Snape is back to his usual sarcastic self.

"You know…"

"Why?"

You roll your eyes. You hate it when he does this.

"Why what, Professor?" you say, a bit more angrily than you intended.

"You know what."

You look away. You really, really don't want to do this. You sigh loudly.

"I don't know. I just…wanted to be able to breathe. It's…suffocating, sometimes." That wasn't exactly as fluent as you were hoping it'd come out. Then again, you really weren't planning on explaining something like this, either. "I just wanted it to stop."

"What did you want to stop?"

"Everything."

"Be specific."

"What do you want me to say?" you bite out angrily.

"I want you to tell me exactly what was going through your head before you picked up the knife."

You look away. It was Snape. He was running through your head. He's always running through your head.

"I was angry with you, because I needed to talk and you threw me out. What were you doing that was so important? You were sent to stay with me to help me," you say quietly.

"Look at me."

It takes a bit for you to work up the nerve, but you do so. You see bitter grief and anger and confusion, but there's something in there, something fleeting but present nonetheless: compassion and understanding.

"If I had known, Harry…I truly do apologise…"

"Who found me?" It's a question you've been meaning to ask. "There was screaming, before you came."

"Andrea."

You can't imagine losing both of your children, one after another, and then finding you like _that_…

You close your eyes. "Shite. She okay?"

"As well as can be expected, I suppose. It was quite a nasty shock for her, I imagine. She said she was just turning off the porch light."

"Okay, I get it," you bite.

"No, I don't think you do, Mr. Potter. Do you even care in the slightest bit how your death would have affected those around you? Do you ever think before you act? Or are allyour actions based solely on a fleeting thought inside your head?"

"Please stop," you beg softly.

"I will not stop. I will do no such thing until you understand that your actions have consequences. You don't understand…"

"No! You don't understand! And you never will! You think you know what it's like inside my head? I dare you, Professor. You wouldn't last a day."

Snape grabs your good arm roughly, bringing you face to face with him. "Nor you in mine, Potter. You think I don't know what it's like to want to die? You think I haven't been face to face with demons? You haven't got a clue, do you? Oh yes, I used to beg for death, Potter. So don't you EVER tell me that I don't understand. I comprehend death more than your pathetic brain ever could." The look on his face is somewhere between pure hatred and

You can't…you're just in complete shock. He lets go of your arm and you fall back into bed. He stands suddenly, and heads for the door.

"Get some sleep, Potter. I'm not through with you yet."

You swallow loudly. If this is what a counselling session with Snape is going to be like, you're not sure you can handle it.

You dream of Draco that night. Not the flashbacks you usually have. This is a new dream.

_"I don't want you here, Potter."_

_"Draco?"_

He's actually sitting on your bed. The one you had at the Dursleys. His hair has a purple hue to it, which cements the fact that this is just a dream.

_"What are you doing here? Uncle Vernon is going to have a fit…"_

_He shakes his head and smiles at you. "Poor Potty," he says, snaking out a hand, lightly touching your cheek. "You need him."_

_What?_

_"What are you on about, Draco?"_

_He pulls you towards__him, places a stoic kiss on your forehead and lets you go._

_"Don't go," you say, suddenly. You know that this is the part in the dream where he is supposed to fade away, but he's still here. Solid as ever. _

_"I never have."_

_"Yes, you did. You left me. It's all my fault. I should have…"_

_He presses two fingers against your lips. "You should have lived your life, Harry."_

_You shake your head, his fingers falling to your chin. _

_"Draco. I have to tell you something. It wasn't me who…"_

_"Shh. I know, love. I've known all this time. Is that why you wanted to join me? To tell me that it wasn't you who raped me?"_

_God, how could he talk so openly about it? You nod, unable to form words._

_He takes you up in his arms, rocking back and forth slightly to pacify you. "My love. I know. And now you do as well. So go on, Harry. Go back and live. He needs you as much as you need him." _

You wake up crying out Draco's name. It sounds so pitiful when you hear it come from your mouth. But you can't help the silent tears that fall down your face.

Snape comes back the next day, much to your dismay.

"Morning, Potter," he spits out, as thoughsomeone were behind him, forcing him to be civil.

"Morning, sir."

He holds out a rather large vial. No doubt another blood-replenisher…

"Drink this. Don't spill any of it."

"What is it?"

"I don't have time for an inquisition. Just drink!" he orders.

You down it in several gulps, knowing that it is the best way to take a Snape potion. But this one doesn't taste half bad. You sense a bit of cherry and mint.

"Not bad. What was it?"

"An antidepressant. You will be taking one every day for the next several months."

"Why? I don't need it. I'm better."

He eyes you, like you've just grown three heads. "Oh, really?"

You nod. "Draco came to me last night. In a dream." Dear God, why are you telling him this? "He said he knew. He knew it wasn't me."

Oh, yes. Why don't you tell him the part about when he said that Snape needed you as much as you needed him, and watch how fast you get thrown in with Lockhart?

"While I am certainly thrilled that your conversations with a dead man have completely cured you of your disease, I advise you to get some rest. The potion is heavy, and will undoubtedly throw your system off. It will try to reject it. And it might be an entire week before you're back to yourself," Snape explains.

"I don't want to take it, though."

Snape rolls his eyes, and sits down on your bed.

"Harry, you need to. Term starts in a week. I cannot…"

"You're leaving? Just like that?"

"You knew it would only be temporary."

You nod, because you knew. You just didn't think it would happen so fast.

He takes the arm that's wrapped in bandages and starts to take them off. You wince, as dried blood catches the gauze and opens a fresh spot. "Don't move," he says quietly, as he gets up and goes to one of the medicine cabinets. He comes back with a jar of some sort of salve.

"Dumbledore said that self-inflicted wounds couldn't be healed with magic."

"He is correct."

"So…how did you close it?"

"With this," he says, uncapping the jar and dipping his fingers in, before gently rubbing the area that opened.

"What is it?"

"It works much like muggle glue. It holds very few magical properties."

"My arm is being held together by glue? Wonderful."

Snape snorts a small laugh. You didn't think he knew how to laugh.

He unwraps the rest of your arm. You can tell he's trying to be gentle, but you still have to bite back a scream several times as the gauze catches a couple of different areas. You look at the long, jagged line down the middle of your left forearm. It will be a scar you'll have for the rest of your life. A reminder.

He cleans off the wound and starts to dress it again.

"Where is Madam Pomfrey?"

"Preparing things for the new term," he says, without looking up from what he is doing.

"I…I'm sorry. For scaring you."

"I do not get scared, Mr. Potter."

"Mm…okay."

"Apology accepted," he says quietly, as he finishes up.

You smile up at him, for what must be the first time in…too long to remember.

"You will be all right, Mr. Potter. I promise you."

"Yeah…I know."

He only calls you _Harry_ when he needs to get your attention. It's a strange habit he's developed. but one you can live with. Besides…it works.

You've been in the hospital wingfor three long days now. You're wondering when they'll let you go. Back to your empty house and your empty life.

Snape comes in periodically. You want so badly to ask him about his past. You want to know if it has ever beenas bad for him as it has for you. You're afraid of what his answer might be. You have to know, though. Dumbledore practically invited you to speak with him about it. You might as well take the initiative…

"It was because of my dad, wasn't it?" you find yourself asking out of the blue. The look on his face, though, is absolutely priceless.

"Pardon me?" he says angrily.

"I mean…er…"

"It doesn't matter. It's in the past. What matters is that you don't make the same mistakes I did."

For some reason, you can't let this die. "It was, wasn't it? My dad and Sirius…"

"What do you want me to tell you?" Snape yells in your face. "That it was your father that drove me to this?"

He lifts up his sleeve, revealing dozens of jagged, white scars up and down his forearm. You let out a small gasp.

"Oh, yes. I was pretty handy with a knife. You should take lessons, Potter."

"Stop."

"What? Don't you want to hear how I got them? I did this one," he says, pointing to one just above his wrist, "After your precious Black told the entire school that I was a poof. I did this one," he says, pointing to one just below the crook of his elbow, "After your mother told me that she'd rather die than go to the Yule Ball with a greasy bastard like me. How about this one? You're familiar with the story. I carved this one after Albus told me that the Fantastic Four were off the hook for trying to kill me. Shall I go on? I have a whole arm you haven't seen yet."

"Please, just…I'm sorry. I…"

"Yes…you are, aren't you?"

You can't even imagine…well, yeah, you can. Draco did the same thing to you before he turned. But it was different, somehow. Perhaps it was that you were a Gryffindor and as much as it got to you, you didn't let it show.

You reach out and trace one of the scars on Snape's arm with your finger. Surprisingly, he doesn't pull away. You need this. You need to touch them, to feel them. It's as if you share his pain, his past, and his burdens.

Snape sighs.

You aren't sure why, but you look him straight in the eyes. You grab him, and before you let it register in his head, your lips meet.

You don't let it stop, though. And surprisingly, neither does he. Like the Slytherin you ought to be, your tongue snakes out, begging for entrance. Shockingly, he lets you in.

A thousand thoughts fly in and out of your mind. You can't believe he hasn't throttled you yet. Could it possibly be? Is he actually…okay with this?

The second you think that, though, you feel rough hands against your chest. They linger, for a moment too long, and you're about to reach down to take your shirt off, but then…the inevitable.

He pushes you away, hard against the bed.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, as he stands, still staring at you. You can't peel your eyes away.

His words, though. His words cut through you deeper than the knife you held in your hand days ago.

"I'm having Albus send for a counsellor from St. Mungo's. You'll be all right, Potter. I…I have to…"

He all but runs to the door, and leaves you sitting in complete and utter shock.

Snape hates you.


	5. Part Five

**A/N: I'm very sorry to say that this last part has not yet been beta read. My beta fell ill, and I really, really wanted to stick by her so I gave her as much time as she needed. I haven't seen her online in nearly a week, so I'm hoping that she's alright and well on the way to recovery. So, I apologize for the many mistakes you may encounter in this chapter. This part starts out with Snape's POV, so it is him speaking in the first person. The rest of it is the way it should be.**

**It's been a great run. I daresay there might be a few shorts coming from the In This Space universe, though I'm not making promises for a sequel, since I don't do sequels well. I really appreciate all of the wonderful reviews. Thank you all for not making me sorry to post here. -Kelly**

* * *

Snape's POV – 

You're lying there on that bed, safe and sound. Your bandages are seeping crimson through the top, and Madam Pomfrey bustles around you, whispering words of encouragement and optimism that you can't even hear. No one should have gone through what you have; no one should have seen what you've seen at your young age. It truly is a sad thing.

Even in sleep, you look distraught. Though that hasn't changed since I've been sent to stay with you. You always look distraught in your sleep. You always look like you're fighting a losing battle in your dreams. And perhaps you are.

I was making a potion for you last night. Before you threw the stewed boomslang skin across your guest room and my makeshift bedroom. Trust me when I say that I hate to say it, but it's become almost like home.

I saw the flicker fear in your eyes when you thought I was leaving you for good that day. It made my heart hurt for a brief moment. You're terrified of being alone. And I'm terrified of just the opposite.

You've always had your friends trailing after you, your fan club not far behind. I'd thought that it was always like that for you. I thought that your life was pampered and pristine, like I thought my life to be at one point. But the rumours started drifting in and out, and I knew. I knew I was wrong, and I possibly hated you even more for that. I hated how alike we were.

But now you're lying on this bed, after waking up and screaming about letting you go. Gods…I haven't heard fear like that in a long time. Not even in the presence of the Dark Lord. I had to step away. I may have panicked a bit as well.

You wake up later that night, and I can see the regret and sorrow masked on your face. I imagine I had the same look on my face the first time I woke up in the hospital wing when it went too far, when life got to be too much.

I can't help but feel sorry for you. Even though you are still the attention-seeking brat I've come to know and…

You meant to die that night. The cuts were too deep to have been anything else.

I spoke to Albus later that night, after our "session." I cannot do this for you the way it should be done. I cannot speak these lies and say that everything will be all right and that you will be okay and sleep soundly at night. It is not right and it is not fair to you. Besides, I have a feeling you know the truth anyway.

They have several counsellors at St. Mungo's that I've come to be acquainted with. Not through experience with them myself, but for the simple fact that you aren't the first of my students to drag a blade across his skin.

I told Albus that night, after the Dark Lord's fall, that you needed professional help before grief overcame you. "Give it time, my dear boy," he told me. "He needs not professional gibberish right now. He needs time to heal himself first. He needs you, Severus." I knew then that you were right. That Albus has been concerning himself with what he thinks you need in life for far too long. I convinced him to let you go when you walked out of the hospital wing a week later. And in convincing him, we struck a deal. That I would watch over you until you could stand on your own two feet again. It was not happenstance that led you to move in next door to me, into a house that hadn't existed two weeks prior.

What began as mere watching became meddling. When I was asked by Albus to move in, I was angry with you, for being so selfish and dramatic, and for myself, for looking forward to it.

The first kiss was an accident on your part, I'm sure. We were quite intoxicated and I left my defences down.

The second kiss, just as shocking as the first, left me a bit scared, I have to admit. It wasn't just a drunken groping as before. Coming out of whatever dream plagued your mind, you looked so hungry and scared, like you needed nothing else at the moment.

This last one, though… I do not know when I turned from greasy potions master to Harry Potter's love interest. I cannot be this for you. I will not be some secret crush to be spoken about behind my back.

Our story ends here, Harry Potter. I cannot allow it to go any further. For your sake and my own. You may never be okay, Harry. And for that, I am truly sorry.

* * *

Snape leaves you that night feeling a bit scared. Counsellor? From St. Mungo's? You really ARE going to be institutionalised. And not just for trying to hack your arm off, but for thinking that Snape had some sort of feelings for you in his black hearted chest. 

You ask Pomfrey for some parchment and a quill, needing to write a few long overdue letters to your best friends. You won't tell them everything…oh no. You'll tell them just enough so that when they get back from Switzerland, they won't be shocked. You didn't want to burden their much-needed vacation with your petty little problems.

After your letters are sent off with Hedwig, a man in a terribly tacky jumper enters behind Dumbledore and you just cannot resist rolling your eyes at the horribly stereotypical counsellor.

"Harry, this is Healer Robert Colven," Dumbledore says quietly.

Colven sticks his hand out, and you politely shake it, not saying anything. Maybe if you don't cooperate, they'll bring back Snape. Maybe if you throw a fit, they'll…

Pomfrey and Dumbledore silently slip out of the room, leaving you alone with Tacky Jumper.

"Harry, I'd like to begin with a simple physical. Is that all right with you?"

You raise an eyebrow, astounded that he is asking you rather than telling you. You almost want to say 'no' just to see what he'd do next, but you simply shrug and he starts to work on unwrapping your bandages.

Ah, now you know. He just wants to see how much you meant it, how much you really wanted to die.

He notes, not looking up at you but carefully examining the cuts, "These are fairly deep."

"Well, I was fairly distraught."

He looks up at you over his glasses and comments, "Albus informed me that this is not the first time you've done this. Is that true?"

You look away, because gods above you don't want to do this. "I…it…"

"I cannot help you, Harry, if you do not tell me the truth."

You glare at him and softly say, "I don't need help. I'm fine."

"Mm hm," Colven says, leaning back in his chair. "This started after the fall of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, yes?"

You shrug.

"And you lost someone close to you in the battle, yes?"

You just look at him, completely unable to form a coherent thought, confused on how he knows this.

"I may be jumping to conclusions here, but this friend you lost…you were close in a way that surpasses friendship."

You nod, a bit suspicious of how he knows all this.

"Have you ever heard of the muggle term 'empath'? An empath is someone who feels what other people are feeling. To say that I am one would be an understatement. In the wizarding world, empathics are a bit more powerful. We do not need legilimency to see into your minds, but nor do we see complete memories. It is mostly generalized feelings and events that have taken place. The more recent the incident or feeling, the stronger I can feel it."

"So what do you feel now?"

"From you? Despair. Anxiety. Loneliness. This…what you are experiencing right now…it will not last forever. It will probably not last the year, if you are lucky. It is survivor's guilt, Harry. You are a war hero, a saviour, and I think that you've always had a hero complex, no thanks to Albus, I'm sure. But you cannot save everyone, Harry. People pass on. It is simply a part of existence. And a war was fought. If you thought that everyone on the side of good would prevail from it, than I'd think you a fool. But I know that you know better than that. You are a smart young man, with a full life ahead of you. And what you make of it is of your own choosing. You have a thousand options to choose from. Do not get lost in prophecies and fate. Your fate is yours and yours alone to decide."

No one has ever told you this before. You'd listened for too long to Dumbledore preach about fulfilling your destiny and accepting fate. But no one has ever told you that you hold your own future.

You really want to believe it.

* * *

Healer Colven tells you not to take the antidepressant potion any longer, since the whole thing is rubbish and not for you. He advises you to perhaps stay with a friend or two, instead of your big lonely house, now that Snape is gone. You don't think you could impose on Ron and Hermione, though. But you might just give it a try. And that when you feel the need to cut again, transfer some of that energy into something you like to do, like flying (not dangerously, though, of course). 

It's what he says while walking out of the Hospital Wing that really makes you think, though.

"I can feel it, Harry - the happiness that is threatening to surface. Run with it."

And if you weren't still feeling like complete shit, you'd say he wasn't at all what you were expecting. Nice, even.

But you're still thinking about Snape, and Lestrange, and everything else that's weighing heavily on your shoulders. You fall into a restless slumber.

You know he comes to visit you when Colven leaves that night, as you hang limply between consciousness and the dream world. You feel his presence, though not overwhelmingly so. He doesn't say anything to you, but you know he realises you're nearly awake.

Who will break first? you think. Without your glasses, there isn't much detail you can make out as you open your eyes slightly to see him bustling about, filling the potions cabinet next to your bed.

"I do not know what you wish me to say to you, Mr. Potter," he says, without turning around.

"Tell me why you gave up on me, for a start."

"Do not be so melodramatic. You have a problem that no amount of potions or mollycoddling can hinder."

"Oh, please. The day you mollycoddle me will be a cold day in Hell with Voldemort."

"Touché."

"You could have just said, 'Harry, I don't want a relationship with some attention-seeking brat with a hero complex.' I would have understood."

He turns around and raises an eyebrow.

"It doesn't matter, though, does it?" you ask.

"Hardly," he says softly. He turns around and continues working.

"Madam Pomfrey says I'm free to go this afternoon."

He grunts in response.

"You won't be there, will you?" you ask, a shimmer of sadness creeping into your voice.

"I have duties to attend to," he says with disdain.

"Why are you still teaching if you hate it so much? The war is over, Professor. I daresay we're safe to do as we please."

"Do not assume to know the reason behind my career choices, Potter."

"Do you?"

"Do I what, Potter!" he says, infuriatingly.

"Like teaching," you say, calmly.

He sighs deeply. "It has its…gratifications."

It is your turn to raise an eyebrow.

"Such as…" you prod.

"Watching you brats leave after putting up with you for seven agonizing years."

"I'm leaving," you say after a long pause.

"So you've said."

"No, I mean I'm leaving. I'm going after Lestrange."

"You…" he bites out, looking at you like you've just joined Voldemort's ranks. "You are a fool."

"So you've told me countless times before."

"You willingly seek out a murderer whom is no doubt out for your blood?"

"I HAVE to. She has to pay…"

"An eye for an eye is no way to live your life."

"So what will you have me do then? Sit around my house thinking of other ways to off myself?"

"Go out and get a job. Get a girl. MOVE ON."

"Says the man who stays at a job he hates because he has nowhere else to go."

"You've no right to speak of things you know not of."

"You know, these words of parting aren't exactly what I had in mind."

Snape is suddenly dangerously close to your face. "What did you have in mind, Potter? This?"

His hands weave intricately woven patterns in your hair behind your neck; his breath warms your cheeks while his lips hover over yours. He's yours, you think. You're too stunned to do anything other than wait for the inevitable contact of his lips and then it happens.

His tongue forces entry between your lips, you teeth. It snakes out, slithers around yours in a passionate embrace, like they've searched for each other for all eternity and finally found one another.

You feel…safe. Whole. Like nothing else matters.

His lips break contact from yours, his forehead still touching yours as he looks at you, studying your face. It looks as though he's trying to memorize it.

"Why…why are you doing this to me?" he asks.

It doesn't matter that he said it though, since you are thinking the exact same thing.

"Because I don't know what else to do," you say as you close your eyes and wait for the inevitable lack of contact.

But it doesn't come. He sits there, his hands behind your neck, taking your features in.

"I…I can't do this on my own," you say, barely audible.

He closes his eyes and nods against you.

"You can come with me."

He nods again, but it contradicts the words coming out of his mouth. "I can't."

He looks up at you, his hands still behind your neck and takes a long deep look into your eyes.

"Right. Term," you say, like you've forgotten it, even though it's been the foremost thing on your mind.

"You know that's not the reason, Potter." His hands are gone, leaving you cold where once warm touch existed.

"You can't tell me that you don't want this. I know you do," you say, forcing that last sentence out like it was your last breath.

"I can't want this. It's not feasible. It's not…" he says, stopping mid thought.

"It's not what, Snape? It's not practical? It's not convenient enough for you?"

"It's not in your best interest."

"Oh fuck, I'm sorry. I must have forgotten. I'm still eleven and can't make my own decisions."

"Don't."

"No, you 'don't'. No one is allowed to tell me what is and isn't in my best interest anymore. I'm not a child anymore, you know."

"No, Harry," he says, sighing in defeat. "You certainly are not. One would argue that you never were."

You look down at your arm, where the bandage is wrapped tightly around your marred skin and wonder if you ever noticed a shift from childhood to adulthood. That maybe it was something that you just missed because you were too busy defeating Dark Lords year after year. You've never wept for your lost or nonexistent childhood. You can't imagine doing so now, either.

But it's no matter, because he gets off your bed and starts walking away.

"Why do you always walk away?" you ask.

"Because, Mr. Potter. I, unlike yourself, know when to walk away. I doubt we'll be seeing each other again. Goodbye."

* * *

Albus comes in to comfort you, or at least that's what you assume he's here for, since he hasn't done much but stare at you in that uneven way he always does. Since Snape has left you somewhat distraught, Pomfrey is hesitant to let you leave today. You do your best to reassure her that you're okay, though, and you gather up your things. 

"I'm going after Lestrange," you say to Albus, as you throw your clothes into the bag that Snape brought you from your house. "I need you to tell me where she is."

"I will not, Harry. I understand that you have a need for redemption, but seeking out a madwoman who is out for your blood as well is not the way to go about this."

"I don't care, and you don't understand," you say, trying your best to remain calm despite the itching desire to scream at him. "Tell me where she is."

"No."

"What do I have to do to get you to tell me?"

"Promise me that you won't go looking for her."

"Then what would the point of me knowing be if I can't do anything about it?"

Albus' eyes twinkle in that most annoying way and you force yourself to wait for his reply before launching into a screaming fit.

"There would be no point, so I don't see how telling you would do any good."

"Why don't you want me to go after her? Are you afraid I'm going to die? You have the audacity to think that I'm just going to let her take me down after I defeated Voldemort and half of his army, including Lucius Fucking Malfoy? What can she possibly do to me?"

"She knows you, Harry. She knows things about you that she will use against you. And you are not well enough yet go through a meeting with her and come out unscathed."

You stare at him for a good while, absorbing everything he's saying, and shake your head condescendingly.

"Look, this was a mistake, alright?" you say, lifting up your sleeve as if he had any doubt what you were talking about. "I realise that now. And I know that in my head it's not all daisies and sunshine yet, and it probably won't ever be, but I need this. If only for my own personal, selfish reasons, I need to do this. I'm sure that the Ministry will not care that I have done what its own Aurors could not. Why are you so doubtful that I can do this? The prophecy is over, Albus. There's nothing left for me to do but clean up."

"After Bellatrix, there will be more, Harry. After she's gone, you'll want another name. It won't stop with her. You must understand why I cannot…"

"You're right. It won't stop with her. I'll hunt every one of them down myself if I have to. And no, I don't understand. What are you protecting them from?"

"Merlin, Harry. I'm not…"

"No? It certainly seems so to me," you raise an eyebrow, much like Snape. You curse yourself for even thinking of him. It will just resurface the hurt that you're trying very hard to bury.

He looks hard at the floor and you can tell that he's thinking, weighing the pros and cons of this decision, as if it were a deciding vote in a locked jury. Finally, he looks up at you with defeat in his eyes.

"Thailand. In a small village outside Bangkok. We have Ministry officials trailing her every move."

You stare at him, disbelieving that they've had an opportunity to do away with her and haven't done it yet. Your anger is blinding for a moment, but then it passes, and your head clears enough to remember the task at hand.

"Will you…"

"I'll have a portkey ready tomorrow."

"Don't tell Snape."

"I won't."

You nod, and floo back to your house without saying so much as another word.

You pack that night, shrinking a few important belongings into your knapsack. You write a fairly lengthy note to Andrea next door, apologising for scaring her and thanking her for her help. You ask her to look after your house while your gone, though cross it out before sealing it in an envelope, noting that you don't care much either way about the house that was never a home. It came close though.

Dumbledore firecalls you in the morning to tell you that the portkey is ready and will be activated at noon, and that the time in Thailand will be seven in the evening. The officials, who include Shacklebolt, much to your pleasant surprise, will be expecting you then.

When noon comes around, you sling your knapsack over one shoulder, and take one more look behind you. Another house to leave behind, another sad sorry face to say goodbye to. You won't tell him where you're going specifically, or that you have no intentions of coming back, but he knows. He knows. If anything has come out of the time you two have, sometimes unwillingly, spent together, it's that he knows you a little better than before. And perhaps you can say the same about him.

You're going to look, with the Ministry's blessing, for the people on your list who have made you who you are. Lestrange is number one, and you can only hope that, with every one of them dead, the piece they took form you will somehow become resolved. You've seen more death in your short life than most adults will ever know. But you know, at least, that you have a long, long road ahead of you yet.

* * *

**The title comes from a lyric in Sarah McLachlan's "Elsewhere." It really is a gorgeous song, I suggest you all check it out. :-)**


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